


teapot

by elizajane



Series: and behold, it was so very good [11]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Established Relationship, Hotels, M/M, Napping, Pre-Slash, Rain, Seaside, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: Aziraphale focuses on Crowley again and remembers he'd gone out. "Oh dear, look at your hair," he says, reaching out to brush at one of the damp curls that's adhered itself to Crowley's cheek.Follows immediately fromtempest.





	teapot

**Author's Note:**

> Warm thanks to Jaydeun and Crowgirl for their encouraging readership and thoughtful beta feedback.

"...phale? Aziraphale." Crowley's voice rouses Aziraphale from his light doze.

"What? Oh, yes --" Aziraphale inhales to wakefulness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar shape of the chair he's nodded off in before he remembers they're in Weston. The hotel. The rain. Another breath. There's Crowley, crouched in front of him with a hand on his knee.

He straightens in his seat and then feels an immediate pang of regret because Crowley withdraws his hand. Even through the cloth, Aziraphale had felt Crowley's touch anchoring him in the here and now.

"...time?" He asks, still blurred with sleep, squinting toward the dim corner of the room where a grandfather clock chimes the quarter hour. The other guests have departed the lounge since he drifted off; he and Crowley are the only signs of life on the ground floor. The autumn storm is still throwing heavy rain against the windows and the light is dim.

"Half past two," Crowley says. "Just."

Aziraphale focuses on Crowley again and remembers he'd gone out. "Oh dear, look at your hair," he says, reaching out to brush at one of the damp curls that's adhered itself to Crowley's cheek. "What were you doing, going out without an umbrella or a raincoat?"

Crowley shrugs, but doesn't pull too far away from Aziraphale's touch. "S'fine."

Aziraphale shakes his head, "No, no. It isn't fine. You’re soaking. We should get you warm and dry." He closes the open book on his knees and pushes himself to his feet. It takes more effort than it should. Crowley stands with him, a fluid motion as always, and Aziraphale notices with alarm that he's wearing an unfamiliar raincoat over his wet jeans and wet jacket.

"How does one manage to get wet _under_ a raincoat?" he asks. It seems like something Crowley might do just to be contrary.

"I wasn't wearing it when I went out," Crowley says, giving Aziraphale a sharp look as he catches Aziraphale's elbow and attempts to shepherd him toward the stairs. "Man at a cafe down by the beach lent it to me."

Aziraphale tries to quell the anxiety -- or is it _fear_? -- that Crowley probably did not intend to provoke. Even as he feels his heart racing in his chest Aziraphale recognizes that he’s not upset about the coat, _per se_, or even about Crowley being wet and catching a chill -- although he'll insist on getting him dry and warm when they reach their room -- but about Crowley having gone out and been altered, however mundanely, while Aziraphale slept. He’s too weary, his attention too divided by his work here, to keep himself calm about Crowley having been _away_. About the fact that Aziraphale might have woken up disoriented. _Alone._ This isn’t one of those times, he reminds himself in an attempt to slow his racing pulse. _Not_ one of those times when Crowley had vanished and left Aziraphale to wonder. That hadn't happened in over a century; Aziraphale has learned that a century isn't long enough to reassure him it will not happen again. He fumbles for Crowley’s hand as they reach the front hall, gripping it perhaps too tightly -- but Crowley doesn’t protest, just holds on, his fingers icy from the cold and the back of his hand still wet from the blowing rain. Crowley’s _here_. He came _back_. They’re at a hotel, in the present, and the following day they’ll get back into Crowley’s ridiculous automobile and drive back to the Dowlings’. Together.

He’s just so _tired_. Despite the nap, he remains bone-weary. Caring for the sisters of La Retraite has been unexpectedly difficult. He's out of practice, spending so much of his time on the Dowlings’ estate where fewer people nearby mean fewer -- or at least less complex -- troubles to ease. Ensuring the health of the latest litter of barn cats or showing Warlock how to set a robin's broken wing are problems with straightforward solutions. Helping four elderly sisters through the grief of leaving the home they had shared for decades -- doing his work at some distance, so as not to intrude during such a difficult time -- is not.

"... like the place," Crowley is saying as he steers Aziraphale toward their room. "They had Bath buns. And lapsang souchong. I thought we could stop on our way out tomorrow, for provisions."

“That sounds lovely." Aziraphale grips the banister at the foot of the stairs and looks up toward the first landing. It looks incredibly far away. "Oh, dear, I seem to have overdone things a bit."

"And you tell me not to worry," Crowley grumbles, continuing to steady him with a gentle hand under his elbow as they make their slow way up to the second floor. "'It's just for a week,' you said. 'I'll be back before you know it,' you said. But if I wasn't here, you'd forget to eat."

"Those scones were really quite excellent at breakfast," Aziraphale acknowledges. Aziraphale had eaten three, topped precariously high with clotted cream from a local dairy, and house-made strawberry preserves. Crowley had drunk his coffee and kept Aziraphale company all through the meal, which was lovely. It has been lovely to have Crowley with him for every meal, and to sleep in the same room every night. By far the loveliest part of the week. They've grown accustomed to spending a great deal of time together in these past few years, but rarely without Warlock, and while Aziraphale has become fond of the child it has been … nice not to share Crowley for a few days. To know that Crowley has come to the seaside for no other reason than to spend time with Aziraphale and bully him into eating hot buttered scones. 

They reach the landing and Aziraphale tucks his book under his arm and fumbles in his pocket for the room key. "And what about _you_, my dear," he points out. "You shouldn't have gone out. You must be cold straight through." He can feel the chill coming off Crowley as he opens the door and steps back to let Crowley pass into their room. "A hot bath before we go down to dinner. I insist."

The bedroom has two beds and an en suite. Aziraphale had found he was disappointed by the additional bed, when they had checked in, and thought wistfully of previous centuries, when sharing a sleeping place was more usual, less … risqué. Now it _meant_things. Things Aziraphale wishes with his entire being Crowley might _want_ sharing a bed to mean. But he hasn’t been brave enough, yet, to open his mouth and ask. Because it might lead to Crowley bolting across the channel, or further -- antichrist or no -- and Aziraphale hasn’t yet been brave enough to risk it. Sleeping in the same _room_ with Crowley is certainly better than sleeping half a mile away across the Dowlings' estate, which in turn is so much better than any of the years where he'd often had to sleep for weeks at a stretch a continent or further apart. He sleeps better when Crowley is near, and although Crowley has never admitted it Aziraphale is all but certain that Crowley rarely rests at all unless he has Aziraphale to keep watch over him.

Now Aziraphale pulls the chain on the lamp to give the room a bit of light -- it's already beginning to get dark outside, particularly with the rain still falling -- and puts his book down on the bedside table. The maid has been during their absence and made up the beds again. He looks down at the deep burgundy of the bedspread and considers a nap. But first things first.

"Take that raincoat off," he says, turning back to Crowley. Crowley's already removed his sunglasses and set them on the dresser, and is halfway out of the coat. "Here, let me --" Aziraphale takes hold of the collar and holds the weight of the coat while Crowley slips out from under it. "You really did get sopping." He shakes his head as he drapes the coat over the armchair in the corner, surreptitiously using a touch of grace to dry it before it stains the brocade.

"I saw that, angel," Crowley says. "Stop it."

"Don't want to make extra work for the cleaning staff," Aziraphale points out with a sniff. "It was a _very_ small miracle."

"Which you don't have the energy for at the moment," Crowley says, irritable as he always is when concerned about Aziraphale's welfare. Revealing that he cares puts him in a bad temper; it's another one of the things of which they don't speak.

"If you let me run you a bath, I won't miracle the rest of your clothing dry," Aziraphale offers sweetly. "How does that sound, as a compromise?"

Crowley's mouth twitches, the suppression of a smile. "No miracles for the rest of the evening?"

Aziraphale considers. "None outside of what the sisters may require," he allows.

"_And_ you'll let me take you to that pub 'round the corner for a decent meal." Crowley taps a gently accusing finger against Aziraphale’s chest.

"When have I ever said no to sharing a meal with you, my dear," Aziraphale points out. And then adds: "Agreed." He can't stop himself from brushing another damp strand of hair away from Crowley's face.

"Done." Crowley agrees, shivering under Aziraphale's fingers.

"I'll go see to the bath, then." Aziraphale steps away before he finds excuses to continue touching Crowley. He can feel Crowley watching him as he steps into the washroom with its deep, clawfoot tub and brass fittings. There's a neat row of tiny bottles by the sink and a stack of white towels replenished by the maid. Aziraphale reminds himself they should leave a generous tip for the cleaning staff when they depart in the morning.

He strips down to his shirtsleeves and rolls up his cuffs before starting the water and testing it until he's found a heat to warm Crowley right through. There are bath salts smelling of lavender and he adds those, too. He can hear Crowley moving around the adjoining room, the thump of his boots hitting the floor one after another, the heavy collapse of wet garments dropped as they are shed. Aziraphale finds the button for the heater built into the washroom ceiling and sets it going as lavender steam begins to cloud the mirror.

"There," he says, emerging into the bedroom. Crowley is standing by the bed he's been using, the Agatha Christie he's been pretending to find boring open in his hands. He's waiting in his shirt and shorts, a state of undress which makes Aziraphale feel flushed and acutely aware of Crowley's being _near_ him. He's seen Crowley in much less, many times, including nothing at all. Of course he has. But familiarity has hardly bred contempt -- quite the opposite. Aziraphale can picture Crowley naked and slipping into the bath with a sigh and ... oh, he needs to stop this train of thought before awkward things begin to happen.

"The bath," he says when Crowley looks up and smiles. "The bath is, um, ready. For you. I'll just --" he gestures toward the bed that really does look terribly inviting. "I'll just lay down, for a spell, before it's time for dinner."

"No cheating while I'm in the bath, angel," Crowley says as he slides past Aziraphale toward the steamy washroom. He gives Aziraphale a jab in the shoulder with his index finger just to drive home the point. "No. Miracles."

"No miracles," Aziraphale echoes, putting his hand up to his shoulder where the ghost of Crowley's touch lingers. Crowley pulls the door mostly shut behind himself but doesn't latch it, and Aziraphale listens to the soft _shuff_ of Crowley’s final layers of clothing removed, the slosh and splash of displaced water as Crowley climbs into the tub. His acute awareness of Crowley so near is a warm comfort in his chest, where he feels it pulsing somewhere between his breastbone and that place just beneath his shoulder blades where splashes of deep red mark the places where his wings emerge from this particular form.

He turns to the bed, the one he's been using, and sits down to untie his shoelaces and remove his shoes. He tucks them neatly under the bedside table and then sits for a moment because even arranging himself for a nap seems effortful.

"I can _taste_ how tired you are, angel," Crowley calls from the washroom. "You're going to ruin my bath."

"Sorry," Aziraphale says, blankly. "Sorry, yes." And allows himself to collapse against the pillows and close his eyes.

* * *

He wakes in darkness and quiet, swimming up to full consciousness from confused dreams of lavender fields in Provence and the slide and coil of Crowley's snake-self, who often visits Aziraphale in sleep. He knows without needing visual confirmation that the sun has dropped below the horizon and Crowley has let him sleep long past the dinner hour. The only light in the room is a soft glow from the heater in the corner which has been turned on high enough to keep the room tropically warm. He turns his head on the pillow and sees the glint of scales on the bed opposite: Crowley coiled at rest in a nest of bedspread, coverlet, and pillows. The soft noises of Aziraphale shifting on the bed are enough to rouse Crowley, who lifts his head and flicks out a tongue in greeting.

Aziraphale isn't quite awake enough for words, yet, but smiles. He hasn't seen Crowley in snake form in over a month and it's a comforting sight.

"Dinner?" he manages, after a pause.

<<Late,>> Crowley responds, body rippling as he shifts and resettles.

"And whose fault is that, for letting me sleep?"

If snake Crowley had had eyebrows, one of them would have risen. <<Worn out.>> His tongue flicks out again. <<Needed rest.>>

"You have worked hard this week to take care of me," Aziraphale murmurs. "Don't think I've failed to notice." And he hasn't. Crowley is only here because Aziraphale is, and not because he's collecting information for his next quarterly report. "Thank you."

Crowley lifts his head again, then Aziraphale shivers at the sight of rippling muscle that precedes Crowley's slide from his make-do nest, across the narrow strip of floor between the beds, and up onto Aziraphale's mattress. Crowley's quick when he wants to be and before Aziraphale has a chance to shift -- toward? away? he never knows what's best to do, only that _toward_ is all he ever wishes for -- there he is, sliding across the bedspread and coiling himself snug against Aziraphale's chest with his head tucked beneath Aziraphale's chin. Aziraphale shivers at the welcome touch.

<<Warm,>> Crowley affirms. <<Rest.>>

Aziraphale inhales, then exhales, feeling Crowley's comforting weight settled across his chest. He lifts a hand to stroke down Crowley's sleek body and feels Crowley flick out an answering taste of his tongue. It always feels like a gift, when Crowley comes to him, in this form, seeking heat and companionship. Aziraphale has slept long enough now that he's not dropping from exhaustion, but his limbs still feel heavy and he has no immediate interest in moving. Certainly not when Crowley is offering to spend their final night of the trip together, like this. He fumbles at the bedspread and flips it, awkwardly, across himself and Crowley to cocoon them together as outside in the dark the storm finally begins to blow itself out.

Tomorrow, the dawn might bring sunshine. And Crowley can take him out for Bath buns and tea.


End file.
